Overkill
by smalld1171
Summary: Short one shot. Set in 10x6 during the scene where Dean takes care of business.


**Overkill**

_Set in 10x6 during the scene where Dean takes care of business. Hope you enjoy._

_Disclaimer: I own NOTHING!_

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><p>Stealth and a hunter's finesse guide him through the house and towards the voice without being seen or heard, his hair, along with a creeping rage starting to bristle on end knowing <em>who<em> it is the words are directed at.

His heart starts to hammer in his chest and his breath quickens in response to the realization, as it becomes more clear with each and every step. This is it, the moment where it is up to _him_ and there is no way Sam can or will be able to take this kill away from him. The thought makes his arm burn, the raised flesh of his brand searing the surrounding skin and flushing him with an unnatural yet not entirely unwelcome heat.

Swallowing down a pang of hesitation he presses onward, pushes away the trepidation as fire flows a steady stream through his blood. The fear as to what lingering affects he may still hold within; the fear that he will reawaken the monster he can still feel glide beneath the surface dissipates into mist as he approaches the current threat to his brother's life.

Lurking against and hugging the shadows that shield him, there is affirmation that Sam is in deep trouble as he closes in; the bitch just realized his brother doesn't have what he needs to take her down. The annoying lilt woven through her voice tells him she has his brother right where she wants him; at last she _thinks_ she does.

A smirk curls his lips and morphs into a sneer as he eyes up the target in his sights. The mark urges him on as it pulsates at the crook of his arm, the thrill and intensity of knowing that she is totally unaware that he _does_ have what it takes to end her sends a spark of electricity through his frame.

Tightening his grip around the weapon he raises it to the ready, but the cold metal suddenly feels odd in his grasp; doesn't fit the digits of his hand right or mold to the contours of his fingertips the way his preferred weapon did. Closing his eyes he imagines the way it would caress his skin, would become an extension of his arm and allow him to kill with precision; the grace, fluidity and elegance of it unlike any other weapon in existence. The gun he holds is just an awkward means to an end, not nearly as beautiful in lethality or design as _his_ blade.

Brought out of his reflection and back to the situation at hand he senses her stupid speech is nearing its inevitable conclusion, which will no doubt culminate in the bitch shooting his defenseless brother. He aims with all the precision the gun will allow and fires, the jolt as his finger presses the trigger making him suck in a stuttered breath.

Death is instantaneous, the shifter's lifeless body toppling over without the excitement or fanfare he was looking for; that the mark _craves_. It is over far, far too soon and does nothing to satiate the surge of adrenaline lining his nerves or to abate the throbbing heat in his arm.

It's not nearly enough.

For a fleeting moment he is aware of his brother's form on the floor and that Sam's face has tilted to look up at him in relief but before he can turn to face him a pulse from the mark quickly blurs Sam and everything else into the background; all but forgotten as the attention it demands and the need to kill rushes in his ears.

Not enough.

Need more.

A mask of indifference takes hold of his features; a blank, emotionless stare now directed at the shifter as his body moves forward on its own accord. He grunts in appreciation of the way the bullets pierce and tear through the body, mesmerized by the sight as it twitches and bleeds. The rolling warmth that has shrouded his body starts to fade as more and more damage is inflicted on the dead, evil thing lying at his feet.

The fog in his head finally lifts and he blinks at the sound; of the empty clip as it continues to click when he presses the trigger, having unloaded an entire salvo of bullets into the thing's form.

Still staring at the shifter's bloodied body and the pool of crimson that now covers the ground beneath and around it his arm slowly lowers. Swiping his tongue across his now parched lips he offers his usual query to his brother in a gravelly voice, asks whether he is okay without taking his eyes off his handiwork.

Satisfied at the outcome and feeling better than he has since he came back the itch crawls along his spine; now that his first kill is under his belt he wants nothing more than to get back on the road and back to the hunt; to his purpose.

He turns and sends a toothy grin towards Sam and ignores the unwarranted look of shock that coats his brother's features.

No problem, he can definitely handle this.

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><p>The End. Thanks for stopping by :)<p> 


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